


Art Appreciation

by LyricaXXX (LyricaB)



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Lewis Summer Challenge 2016, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8004070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricaB/pseuds/LyricaXXX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <i>“What’s that, then? We have a new case?” Robbie bends down, bracing his forearm on the back of James’s chair to lean in close and peer at the computer screen. The scent of early morning James—coffee, cigarette smoke, croissant—washes over him. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“They’re bronze statues. A research team at Cambridge believes they’re by Michelangelo.” James scrolls back up through the story, past the couple of small photos to a large photo of two statues. “He’s the artist who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel,” he adds. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I may not have the benefit of a Cambridge education, Inspector,” Robbie responds testily, “but I know who Michelangelo is.” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>James tilts his big head back and grins up at Robbie. Even partially upside down, his expression is cheeky, bluegreen eyes crackling with mischief.</i>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art Appreciation

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
>  _I wrote this last year after seeing a news story about the Rothschild bronzes. I kept hearing James’s voice in my head, talking about them, and I had to write it to get him to shut up. But for all his enthusiasm about the bronzes, he wouldn’t help me get the ending to click and my contrary muse was no help either, so I put the story away._
> 
>  
> 
> _This was finished for the Lewis Challenge 2016 Summer Challenge. I signed up for the Summer Challenge with misgivings—so much of real life has been sliding sideways for the last few months that I feared I wouldn’t be able to write—but I thought maybe focusing on fanfic might help my state of mind. Not sure why, other than little else has helped and hope springs, if not eternal, then at least with annoying, occasional persistence. *g* So I set off to complete one of my languishing long fics, but, of course, that didn’t work out. So I went searching amongst my shorter unfinished pieces for something I might be able to whip into shape so that I wouldn’t have to withdraw completely. I found this one and one I’d written a couple of years ago, set during the Pilot episode. I chose the other one and started banging away at it, trying to get it into shape. Then yesterday, I realized I had a major plot flaw. So back to this one. James still wasn’t much help with the ending, but he does love talking about those bronze statues, and Robbie loves hearing him talk. *g*_
> 
>  
> 
> _The bronze statues are real and very cool! I drew most of the research for James's talking points from[here](https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2015/feb/02/michelangelo-bronzes-sculptures-fitzwilliam-museum-cambridge), though I'm sure I also used info from other articles. The sketches that James references can be seen [here](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2936919/The-sketches-prove-bronzes-work-Michelangelo-Tiny-500-year-old-drawing-one-artist-s-students-helps-solve-mystery.html%0A). But there are plenty of other articles. Just search ‘Michelangelo bronze’._   
>    
> 

  
  


* * *

  
  


> It has been said that art is a tryst;  
>  for in the joy of it, maker and beholder meet.  
>                                                  _~Kojiro Tomita_  
> 

 

“What’s that, then?” Robbie bends down, bracing his forearm on the back of James’s chair to lean in close and peer at the computer screen. The scent of early morning James—coffee, cigarette smoke, croissant—washes over him.

James has the meagre contents of a case file spread out before him on his desk, but it’s obvious the news story on his monitor isn’t related to anything they’re currently investigating. At least, not in any way Robbie can immediately connect. 

A croissant, with only one delicate bite missing, is on a napkin at James’s elbow. It’s one of the fancy ones, from that shop on The High, and it’s brown crust is shiny with butter. Robbie pinches off the unbitten end of it and pops it in his mouth.

“Oi!” James protests, but he fishes a spare napkin out of his desk drawer, carefully tears the remainder of the pastry and puts half of it in Robbie’s hand. 

“Ta.” Robbie pinches off another piece and eats it, savouring the rich, buttery flakiness, before peering at the monitor again. “So, what’s that about? We have a new case?” 

“I wish,” James say fervently. “I’d love to investigate these.” James scrolls back up through the story, past the couple of small photos to a large photo of two statues. “They’re bronze statues. A research team at Cambridge believes they’re by Michelangelo.” His chair squeaks as he shifts so that it’s easier for Robbie to see past him. He says helpfully, “He’s the artist who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.” 

“I may not have the benefit of a Cambridge education, Inspector,” Robbie responds testily, “but I know who Michelangelo is.” 

James tilts his big head back and grins up at Robbie. Even partially upside down, his expression is cheeky and triumphant, bluegreen eyes crackling with mischief. 

“Oh, get on, you.” Robbie nudges the sharp jut of James’s scapula, not too gently, admitting, “You got me with that one.” 

James’s grin widens. 

It lightens the whole room, and Robbie edges closer, shifting from leaning on the chair to bracing on James’s shoulder. The warmth leeching through the crisp white shirt is, like James’s expression, akin to the first rays of the morning sun peeking over the horizon. 

The picture on the screen is two different views of a bronze statue of a muscular, naked man with one arm raised in the air. The figure is astride a funny looking cat—a lioness or a tiger, maybe. But as Robbie scrutinizes the image, he realizes that it’s not two different views of the same statue. It’s two statues, almost mirror images of each other, though on closer inspection, he can pick out slight differences. One figure is bearded, and the head appears to be turned a bit more towards the arm. 

Robbie tilts his head to study the features. It’s probably just a trick of the light, but the bearded figure appears older than the other one, slimmer, and his bronze muscles stand out in brighter relief. “So what’s the big thing with these two? And what is it they’re doing?” 

“They’re riding panthers. And if the art history research team at Cambridge is correct, they’re the only surviving examples of bronze statuary by Michelangelo. There’s a small statue of Hercules in the Victoria and Albert Museum that one these professors believes is by Michelangelo, but that attribution is disputed. This one has been, too, for almost a century, but Cambridge set up a team of international experts to study them, and they’ve found evidence that they believe proves they’re by Michelangelo.” 

Robbie digests the information and decides that the only really interesting information in all of it is the panthers. “Why’re they riding panthers then?” 

“You’d have to ask Michelangelo.” 

Robbie’s back gives a twinge to remind him he’s standing bent over at an odd angle, but he remains where he is a moment, reading what little he can see of the text underneath the photo, about the history of the statues. And, though he would never admit it aloud, soaking in the warmth that’s radiating off James and playing, in his head, the private detecting game that’s so much a part of who he is that he can’t turn it off, even when he should… 

He breathes in the various scents surrounding James—the obvious croissant, soap, coffee, milk, rain-dampened wool, and just a hint of cigarette smoke—and extrapolates… James had a shower this morning and used his old soap, not the new one he was using last week. And he had milk in his coffee. And he didn’t make it into the office before the morning rain. And his last cigarette was probably during his stop-off for his breakfast croissant, so he’ll want to go out soon for a smoke. And—

James shifts slightly, as if Robbie’s been standing there, bent over and silent, taking little breaths to test the air, for so long that he’s noticed. 

Robbie abandons the game, narrows his eyes, and stares harder at the monitor as if that’s what he’s been doing the whole time. “A whole team of people, just to study two statues? Hmmpph. Must be slow up at Cambridge.” 

“Art appreciation, Robert, is essential to life,” James intones loftily. “Art speaks to us in ways that words cannot.” 

Robbie snorts. “You sound like a bleedin’ brochure.” But, he reflects, what James actually sounds like is a professor. And Robbie can see it, too... James standing up front in a crowded lecture hall, young faces tilted up, eager and admiring, as they drink in James’s words, laugh at his sly literary jokes. 

Robbie grins at the image. “I can just see it, you as a Cambridge don. You’d be the first to stick your hand up when they asked for volunteers for the research team.” 

James ignores him. “They’re on display at the Fitzwilliam in Cambridge. I think I’ll take a few days next month and drive up.” 

Robbie straightens, puts his bit of croissant on the edge of the desk, and stretches until his back pops, then yawns and rubs his eyes. He rocks, carefully, side to side to ease the kinks. The day before was a long one, trudging around in the rain, conducting interviews, and he doesn’t feel as if he’s had enough sleep to recover from it. This one hasn’t started out much better, with more rain and another couple of interviews, both with cranky dons who think themselves above suspicion. His shoes and the hems of his trousers are already damp, and his feet are complaining about it. And there are still more interviews to come. 

“Sounds like an exciting trip,” Robbie says dryly. The story _is_ interesting, despite his pretence at disdain, but the small of his back is complaining, too, about the long day yesterday and the way he was just bent over to look at James’s computer. 

James clicks the mouse and a different view of the two statues appears on his monitor, but he’s not actually looking at the screen. He’s watching Robbie out of the corners of his eyes, taking in the movement of his torso. 

Probably about to make some sarky comment about Robbie’s age or being out of shape, though Robbie think he’s in fine shape for a man his age. It’s just the un-seasonal spurt of rain and grey damp that’s hung in for the last couple of weeks, coupled with too many late nights, that’s got his back complaining. 

But all James says is, “You’re welcome to join me.”

“I was being facetious, Jim.” In fact, facetious doesn’t cover it. Robbie can’t think of anything less exciting than walking around in a stuffy Cambridge museum, surrounded by tourists and toffee-nosed scholars, all of them ooh-ing and ah-ing over naked statues. 

But then, James’s expressive face comes over all crestfallen, and Robbie realizes that James’s invitation was genuine. It takes all of a second to relent. “A chance to check out your old stomping grounds, though... That might be educational. Mind, we’d have to visit more than just museums...” 

James’s face brightens back up. His blue-green-gold eyes crinkle at the corners. “I know a couple of pubs you might like,” he allows. 

“A drinking holiday. Now that has possibilities.” Robbie twists his midsection to stretch his back. 

James ducks to avoid being hit upside the head by a flying elbow. “I should have known art appreciation would go out the window when there are pints to be had.” 

Robbie grins. They’re both taking the piss. As usual. But a holiday isn’t really not a bad idea at that. Within the next week or so, he’ll have moved the last few things out of the house and into his flat. His and Laura’s decision to go their separate ways hasn’t been difficult, exactly, just...a bit regretful and, sometimes, a little tense. But they’re still, cautiously, friends, and he can see that they’ll probably find their way back to where they’d been before they decided to get involved. With time. 

But it’s all still a little sad, and every so often, when he lets it get to him, as depressing as the grey days. Even weeks later, his mattress still feels new, and he hasn’t become accustomed to sleeping alone again. Instead of helping, the familiarity of the cold, clean sheets they’d counted out and split equitably has left him feeling out of sorts. Like a failure. 

Which doesn’t make sense, really, because he didn’t fail, did he? If either one of them had really wanted their relationship to succeed...well, they would have tried harder, wouldn’t they? And since he’s failed at something he hadn’t really worked at all that hard in the first place, maybe hadn’t really wanted as much as he originally thought, it seems like it shouldn’t be a big thing. But that’s not how he feels. Apparently, his heart doesn’t understand the difference between losing something he _really_ wanted and something he only half-heartedly felt he _should_ want. It still _feels_ like failure, and it’s left him with the mawkish, odd sensation that the walls of his flat are closing in. 

So a holiday, a little time away from Oxford—the echoing emptiness of the flat; the large, cold expanse of mattress; the smell that should be familiar by now, but isn’t—will be a good thing. “Let’s don’t wait until next month,” he says suddenly. “We can wrap up this case in the next few days if we push a bit harder. That don I interviewed yesterday at Lonsdale knows something he’s not telling, and the witness does, too. How about next week, or the one after?” 

He’s surprised at his own impetuousness, but at the same time, it feels right. He’s relieved at the idea of getting away. Even a bit excited. The idea of spending some time not thinking about failure, not talking about work or the future, just listening to James wax eloquent on art and Michelangelo, showing him around Cambridge, drinking a few pints... It all sounds better and better the more he thinks about it. 

It might even encourage James to open up a bit about his life before Oxford. Even after all their time together, on the job and as friends, the lad’s still something of a closed book. Through the years, Robbie has come to realize that most of what James has told him, about his family and his time at university and in the seminary, is surface stuff. It’s all true, but it doesn’t touch on the real emotions behind what he was going through. Robbie’s always been too respectful of James’s privacy to ask any of the thousand questions he has about James’s childhood and his family and the whys and wherefores of that complicated, sometimes divisive relationship. 

As for James’s time as a priest...well, that’s best left alone, because there’s something a bit kinky about his reaction to that idea. There’s something not right about the sensual tickle that ripples down his spine when he thinks of James wearing a priest’s cassock. The warmth that flushes over him when he thinks of James’s long neck encircled by a white collar... A psychologist would have a field day inside his head over that one. 

But he’s still curious. Still always watching for some new titbit, another piece of evidence for his mental file on James. Curse of being a detective for most of his life, he supposes, not being able to stop observing, even when it’s a friend. James-watching has definitely become a habit for him. And a lot more of a joy than he’d ever admit aloud. 

James rocks back a bit in his chair, looks up at Robbie. His expression is surprised, but pleased. “Okay,” he says easily, enthusiasm clear his voice. “As soon as we’ve closed this case. Lizzie can wrap up the paperwork. I’ll tell Innocent.” 

They grin at each other, and Robbie gives James’s bony, sloped shoulder a quick squeeze before turning away. And because he knows it will please James to talk about his new interest, Robbie says, “So, go on, educate me. What makes these dons so sure these are by...” He pauses to look over his shoulder and raise his eyebrows. “Who did you say the artist was?” 

James gives him a _look_ , eyes narrowed, mouth pinched into a thin line, then turns back to the computer. 

Robbie reaches back for the piece of croissant that James has gifted him and crosses over to his desk. He grins wider as he plops himself down in his chair. 

“The strongest evidence is a sketch by one of Michelangelo’s apprentices, which shows a study for one of the statues. I wonder why they don’t have a picture...” James pauses as he clicks and scrolls with the mouse, then clicks and scrolls again. “There it is.” He leans closer to the monitor, tilts his head sideways as he studies the drawing. Then he turns the monitor so Robbie can see it. 

Robbie squints and nods, pretending he can see more than just a parchment-coloured blur on the screen. He bites off a bit of fluffy pastry and sighs as it almost melts on his tongue and fills his mouth with the taste of butter and slightly sweet bread. He drags the trash bin around and props one foot up on it as he takes another bite. 

James turns the monitor back and studies it, tilting his big head first one way, then the other. “The sketch really does look almost exactly like one of the statues,” he says, as delighted as if he’d been the first one to discover it. After a couple of minutes, he clicks again. 

Robbie squints at the new page as he finishes off his bit of croissant and wipes his fingers on the napkin. It looks like the original page, with the picture of the bronzes and the story. 

James reads for a moment, then continues his lecture. “There are several features on the bronzes that are in Michelangelo’s style...the arms, especially the right arms, are very similar to his paintings, including his work in the Sistine Chapel. And the way Michelangelo portrayed musculature...the thigh muscle, the arch of the foot, and the navels... All that work on the bronzes is very similar to Michelangelo’s paintings.” 

“The navels?” Robbie smirks. 

“You asked,” James warns him without looking away from the screen. “Apparently, Michelangelo was known for his innies.” He smiles a bit at that. “And then there’s the peroneal tendon.” 

“I’m afraid to ask.” 

James doesn’t even have to read or click to answer that one. “A tendon in the ankle.” 

“And whatshisname did those different, too?” 

James shakes his head, but doesn’t respond to Robbie’s joke. He’s still staring at the screen, reading. “I’m not sure.” 

He scrolls and reads. Scrolls and reads. “I think the oddity isn't how it was done, but that the statues even show that particular musculature in the ankle. You have to understand how difficult it was to study anatomy in those days. Nudity wasn’t as acceptable as it is today. Figure drawing classes with nude models or art books with nude studies weren’t readily available.” 

Robbie grins. “Yeah, not like today when you can get an education just walking down the High.” He’s thinking of the man who passed James and him just a few days back, before the weather turned so cool and wet. He’d been tall and slim like James, though the complete opposite in complexion—dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes—and the bloke’s jeans had been so tight and washed so thin that Robbie could see his dangly bits almost as clear as if he’d been naked. Robbie had been so surprised (and maybe a bit turned on) that he’d stopped in mid-stride and gawked. Then covered his reaction by exclaiming, _‘How does he walk in that get-up without doing himself damage?’_ James had smirked the rest of the afternoon at Robbie’s reaction. 

James grins as if he’s thinking of the same thing, but goes right back to his lecture. “Very few artists understood anatomy and musculature with the depth that Michelangelo did. He was…” 

Robbie closes his eyes as James’s voice washes over him. Awareness of the actual words and their meaning drift into background noise while the tone, the timbre, becomes music. He loves James’s voice. Has from the first moment he heard it all those years ago, at the airport. Back then, he’d been so mired in pain and sorrow, so full of grief at how empty his life was without Val in it, so filled with dread at returning to a place that no longer felt like home, that he’d barely been able to breathe. James’s voice, through those first few weeks of learning to be in Oxford again, had been soothing. A gently sarcastic, sometimes brooding, sometimes humorous, always musical lifeline back to the land of the living. A reminder that he didn’t have to be as alone as he’d been the day he left Oxford. 

Now...it’s more than that. It’s _James’s_ voice, a friend’s voice, no longer just that of some odd, awkward detective sergeant. Through the years, James’s voice has become less brooding, but even more sarcastic now that he trusts Robbie to understand his sense of humour. And still as uplifting as a symphony. James’s lovely, musical, lilting, playful baritone has become the soundtrack to Robbie’s life. 

Robbie drags himself back to awareness. He’ll hear all this information again when he goes with James to Cambridge, but... James long ago sussed out that sometimes Robbie zones out while he’s talking about stuff like this. And if Robbie gets caught doing it now, he’ll get James as the Cambridge don, all pretend annoyance and exaggerated, baleful expressions. And Robbie will be the student failing a pop quiz. 

“...sketch was in the style that Michelangelo used for his designs. And one of these articles somewhere here says that, at the time these bronzes were made, there were only three artists capable of creating them...Michelangelo, Da Vinci, and Durer. And of those three, only Michelangelo sculpted.” 

When he realizes what James is saying, he’s interested in spite of his mental protestations. Robbie puts his foot on the floor and sits forward. “It’s just like a case, isn’t it? They have all these clues. And forensics. And a pool of suspects to narrow down.” 

James glances at him and smiles. A lovely, genuine smile this time, not a smirk or a trace of sarcasm in sight. “Exactly. One of the professors called it a ‘Renaissance whodunit’.” 

Robbie smiles back, impressed with himself, feeling a bit like a student who just passed a pop quiz. 

But then James spoils it all by smirking and adding, “And then there’s the pubic hair.” 

“Renaissance DNA?” Robbie asks sceptically. 

James gives a long suffering sigh. “Not an actual pubic hair. The way it’s sculpted on the bronze figures.” 

Robbie doesn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Oh, then I’m definitely in. Give me a holiday to study bronze pubic hair, throw in a couple of pints, and I’m there with bells on.” 

James snorts and turns away, trying to hide his laughter. 

Robbie can’t help himself. He gets up and goes over to James. He steps in close and leans slightly to peer at the monitor. “Well, make it bigger, then. Let’s see.” 

James clicks the mouse, then clicks again, and the picture lurches to an enhanced close-up of bronze genitalia. It’s a bit pixelated, but there’s no doubting what it is. Curly pubic hair artfully carved above a very realistic bronze penis, which is draped over bronze testicles. It’s so realistic that Robbie can even see the bronze foreskin. 

He rocks back. A hot flush flares on his cheekbones. “I didn’t mean the privates, man! Just make the bleedin’ picture fit the screen.” 

James is grinning so widely that Robbie, even standing behind him, can tell. His expression is tugging at his big ears, suppressed laughter quivering across his shoulders. He clicks the mouse and the picture slides back to a full view. “Sorry,” James says, though he doesn’t sound a bit contrite. “I thought you meant you wanted to study Michelangelo-style pubic hair up close.” 

Robbie glances up to check that there’s no one near the door of James’s office. Innocent has the uncanny knack of appearing at the worst possible moment in a conversation, and he’ll never hear the end of it if she happens by while they’re discussing pubic hair and staring at nude statues on the computer. And all of this while he’s standing so close, James’s shoulder warm and sharp against his hip. She’d be rolling her eyes and making comments for weeks. 

Assured that they’re alone, Robbie looks back at the picture, noticing, now that James had made him so aware of the statue’s nudity, the figures _and_ the privates. The matching figures are two men, one younger and one older. At least, one appears older, maybe because he has a beard, while the other one is clean shaven. 

It makes Robbie a little breathless, aware of the two of them, him and James, older and younger, in a way he normally keeps tamped down. It makes him a little reckless, a lot impish. “They are pretty true to life,” he says grinning. “Got it right on the money, that Michelangelo.” 

James frowns. 

Robbie can practically hear that big brain clacking. 

James can tell it’s a set-up, but he can’t tell what the joke is without asking. He actually manages not to ask for a couple of minutes. Then he sighs. “All right. Tell me.” 

“Well, the older bloke’s the best looking, isn’t he? He’s got better muscles and he’s better endowed. Isn’t that the way of the world?” Robbie backs away, still grinning like mad. 

James’s head whips around, his mouth hanging open. He stares at Robbie as if he can’t believe what Robbie’s just said. Then, not to be outdone, James snaps his mouth shut and says, in the flirtiest, most come hither tone Robbie’s ever heard out of his mouth, “Are you sure about that?” 

It’s so well done that all Robbie can do is wave his hand, signalling defeat. He laughs. “No,” he admits. “I’m not.” 

And it’s the truth. They’ve shared a hotel room on a couple of occasions, been in restrooms and locker rooms together, but James is a shy one. Robbie’s rarely seen James without a shirt, and he’s never had even a glimpse of James’s bits and bobs. He has no idea how well endowed, or not, James is. 

But thinking about stuff like that is not the way to make the rest of his day more comfortable. He should have known that a conversation about naked statues of an older man and a younger man was going to take his mind places it didn’t need to be. Trying to derail his train of thought before he says something he shouldn’t, Robbie walks away from the conversation. “If we’re going to get this case solved, I’d better get on. I’ve still got a couple interviews to do in Jericho.” He pushes the office door closed so he can grab his anorak off the hook on the back. 

Without even a squeak from his chair or footfalls on the carpeted floor to warn Robbie that he's moved, James is behind him, helping him slide the jacket up his arms. “I’ll ride with you,” he rumbles. 

They’ve never had much of a sense of personal space between them, and it’s never bothered Robbie. It doesn't bother him now, exactly. But James is standing so close, Robbie can feel the heat of him along the backs of his thighs. So close that his breath gusts over the back of Robbie’s neck and down his collar. He feels the tickle all the way down his spine.

“Aren’t you even curious?” James teases, still in that deep, flirty voice that’s like live wires on Robbie’s skin. His fingers linger on Robbie’s shoulders as he settles the jacket into place. “About the accuracy of Michelangelo’s figures?” 

Robbie’s heart picks up speed, chewing at his ribs like a jackhammer, and his breath—where has his breath gone? He can’t seem to draw even a teaspoonful of air into his lungs. He clamps down on his muscles to hold in a shiver. Tries to think of a snappy comeback. But his brain doesn’t seem to be working, or if it is, he can’t hear it over the thunder of blood behind his ears. 

He fumbles James’s black wool coat off the hook, reaching carefully with only a sideways movement so that he doesn’t rock back. He turns in a careful, tight circle, using the folds of fabric as a shield, as an excuse to push James back a bit. 

But James doesn’t give. He leans into Robbie’s fists, crushing the coat between them. James puts his hands on the door on either side of Robbie’s head and he tilts his head down. “Even a little bit?” he whispers in Robbie’s ear. “Haven’t you ever wondered?” 

James is so close Robbie has to tilt his head to look at him. The back of Robbie’s head bumps against the door as James crowds in even tighter. James’s eyes glitter like there’s a sun behind them as he tugs his coat from Robbie’s fingers and lets it fall to the floor. And, oh christ!, James is hot. Even through the layers of their clothing, he feels like he has a fever. 

But it’s Robbie who’s suddenly burning up. He doesn’t dare say what he’s thinking. That it’s more than just wondering how James would look out of those expensive, carefully pressed suits. He’s wondered what it will feel like to have James’s naked warmth against him, to stroke James’s milky skin. To have all that wry, intense concentration directed at him. He’s wondered what it would be like for James to be the one who fills the emptiness in his lonely bed. What it would be like to wake up next to James every morning. 

He’s so cocooned in James’s heat, wrapped in his scent—cigarettes and paper and ink, coffee, a hint of musky soap on warm skin—that he can’t think straight. He opens his mouth to tell James to back up so he can breathe, but all he manages to choke out is barest part of a long hidden truth. “Yeah. I’ve wondered.” 

And then he holds his breath, waiting for James to back away. To be suddenly awkward and embarrassed. Because Robbie’s half afraid that he’s miscalculated. That this is all just James’s usual banter. Just James being James, smart-arsed and flirtatious. Robbie’s afraid he’s just said the wrong thing, even though this has been coming, between them, for a long time. For so long that Robbie can’t believe that it’s finally happening because of a couple of naked bronze statues in Cambridge. 

But James smiles, pleased but sharp and predatory, and leans in again. Moving slowly. Communicating his next move. Giving Robbie time to counter. Time to think, if only he could get his brain working. Because this isn’t banter or pretend flirting. He didn’t miscalculate. James is going to kiss him. _James is going to kiss him!_ His heartbeat segues between clattering fear and singing with anticipation, and his breath catches in a hard knot behind his breastbone.

Robbie’s so hot, so nervous, he can feel sweat breaking out in the small of his back. He wants to let loose the shiver he’s been holding in, but he can’t move. He’s frozen. Claustrophobic. Terrified. Excited. Because he’s wondered, daydreamed, fantasized. But his imagination has never matched up to this. To the sweetness of James’s mouth hovering over his. To the heat, the weight of solid muscle pressed against him. The hint of James’s arousal, burning against his hip. His own answering response straining against his trousers. 

They’re so close they’re breathing the same breath. Coffee and butter-scented air laced with cigarette smoke. And it shouldn’t taste so good, smell so good, but it does. And why isn’t James kissing him now? What’s holding him back? And to hell with this waiting! With this game. To hell with making only safe, careful choices. 

Robbie grabs James by his tie and yanks him the last few centimetres. Their lips smash together, and Robbie’s teeth bite into the back of his own lip. 

James grunts and his hands slide inside Robbie’s anorak, clutch at his waist. James yanks him away from the door, hard up against him. His whole body plasters to Robbie’s, and he murmurs something in that golden voice. 

Something Robbie can’t understand. But he doesn’t care. As long as James keeps on kissing him and sliding his hot, hot hands further up under his coat, Robbie doesn’t care. 

James’s hands burn his back through his shirt. James’s tongue swipes, slick and hot, across his own, duels with it. His barely-there morning beard sandpapers Robbie’s chin. And the taste of him…oh, god, the taste of him. Robbie can’t remember anything so sweet as the taste of James. As James against him. Holding him. Kissing him. 

And just as suddenly as it started, James is gone. Backing away. Taking away his hot hands and his smoky-sweet mouth. 

Even the sudden easing of the abrasion on his jaw leaves Robbie bereft. He groans and falls back against the door, his world up-ended and his mind reeling. Only aware, when James reaches up and gently disentangles his fist, that he’s still clutching James’s tie fiercely. Probably cutting off James’s breath with how tightly his fingers are wound in the strip of silk. 

“What was that all about, then?” Robbie gasps, working his fingers to get the blood back into the tips. Not that he doesn’t know. But he needs to hear James say it. 

James cups his face. One hot hand curves across Robbie’s jaw and his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone gently. James’s face is flushed bright pink, and his eyes are wide, the beautiful bluegreen gone dark, but flashing with laughter. “A kiss is very like art appreciation,” he murmurs and his voice is silk and whiskey. “Essential to life and like art…” And he waits. Watching carefully to see whether Robbie will get it. 

It takes Robbie a minute to catch up. To replay their conversation and find the reference. To settle his breathing enough to be able to speak clearly. “Art speaks in ways that words can’t.” Robbie smiles as he feels, from the tips of James’s fingers burning on his temples to the tips of his cold, wet toes, all the ways that artful kiss just spoke to him. 

James smiles back, intimate, sweet. Pleased. A smile that hints at more kisses to come, a reward for Robbie’s correct answer. He leans his forehead against Robbie’s and sighs as if he’s just found a bone deep relaxation. 

Robbie draws in a deep breath, hands coming up to rest on James’s waist. He feels like he’s just passed the most important pop quiz of his life.

###  
  
  



End file.
